


so collect your scars and wear them well

by tinyinkstainedbird



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 09:19:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1599668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyinkstainedbird/pseuds/tinyinkstainedbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey stumble home after the fight at the Alibi and deal with the aftermath of the war they just won. </p>
<p>Takes place right after 4x11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so collect your scars and wear them well

It's after midnight when they crash through the door like a couple of wounded soldiers returning home from a war they barely won. Mickey leaves smears of blood on the railing as he struggles up the stairs. Ian looks over at him and whispers, “hold onto me,” even though he's broken, too.

  
So Mickey puts an arm around his waist, and Ian thinks that maybe their days of fighting are done. Ian doesn’t even know what they'll do with themselves without the war, but he decides that just getting to the top of the stairs is enough for now.

“What the hell happened to you guys?”

Ian looks up to see Carl standing in the doorway of Fiona’s bedroom, watching them with his lip curled.

“Talk about it in the morning,” Ian mutters. “You miss Fiona?”

“Huh?”

“You’re sleeping in her room.”

“Oh.” Carl grins wolfishly. “My girlfriend’s sleeping over.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows and gives Ian a sidelong glance. Ian points a finger at his little brother. “Uh, we’ll talk about that in the morning too.”

Carl snickers and retreats back into Fiona’s room, leaving Ian and Mickey alone in the hallway again. 

“Sleep or shower?” Ian asks.

Mickey’s first reaction is to tell Ian to fuck off because he can take care of his own damn self, but he doesn’t have to do that anymore. What he wants is a fucking shower, so he grunts his answer and lets Ian lead him to the bathroom and close the door behind them.

“I can do it; I’m not fucking retarded,” Mickey snaps when Ian tries to help him with his jacket. Old habits die hard. He relents, exhaling deeply and taking a moment to remind himself who he is and who Ian is and where they are and how they got here. “Here. Before you break another goddamn rib,” he mutters, and slides Ian’s coat off his shoulders so that he doesn’t have to lift his arms.

Hands on Ian’s arms, he takes another breath as Ian steps forward to rest their foreheads together. “We gonna talk about it?” Ian asks.

“Nope.”

“You were amazing.”

“What the fuck did I just say?”

Ian presses a kiss into his bloody hair. "You're so fucking brave."

Mickey closes his eyes, because it had only been a few hours since Ian had called him a coward. He believes every word that comes out of this boy’s mouth, he loves him so much, and he’s starting to believe the good things too and he doesn’t know what the hell to do with good things, so he snaps, “Shut up and take my clothes off.”

Ian smiles crookedly. Mickey has his ways of saying _thank you; I love you; I trust you_ , and Ian is the only one who’s ever listened to him. He doesn’t say anything in response to the way Mickey trembles as Ian unbuttons his shirt and undoes his belt, but if he did, he would simply say _I love you back_.

Once Mickey’s bloodstained clothes are on the floor, Ian turns the shower on, holding his hand under the spray to test the water while it takes its sweet-ass time warming up. He unbuttons his own shirt while he waits, wincing at the pain in his ribs and not minding, because this is pain that doesn’t hurt.

While Ian sits on the edge of the tub, Mickey stands in front of the mirror and spits into the sink. It’s getting better -- more saliva than blood now. He looks up into the mirror to examine the damage his father's fists had done to his mouth, but he stops when he sees his reflection.

This is the first time he’s seen himself since announcing to his whole world who the fuck he really is. His eyes are fucking brighter. His teeth are pink from all the blood and his face has been beaten to a pulp, but for the first time in his entire life, he doesn’t hate what he sees. Standing naked before his own reflection, he isn’t disgusted; he isn’t scared; he is Mickey fucking Milkovich, and there's a boy who loves him, a boy who is running hot water to wash the blood and dirt away from his face. A boy he would kill for. A boy he would die for. A boy who would kill and die for him, too.

“Ready?” Ian asks, his voice gentle, as if hesitant to interrupt.

Mickey turns back to him. It certainly isn’t the first time they’ve seen each other naked, but it's different somehow. It’s always fucking meant something, fuck everything he’s ever said, but this time is different because they’re free. They’re free to matter, to exist just the way they are. Mickey’s not quite ready for everything going on his fucking head, so he breaks eye contact and climbs into the shower.

Ian doesn’t need permission to follow him anymore, but Mickey tenses up anyway. He’s never showered with anyone, man or woman, but he’s never seen the appeal in it anyway. You’re standing there freezing your ass off while the other person hogs all the water, your limp dick dangling between your legs as you wait your goddamn turn. To make matters even less sexy, along the ledge of the Gallagher’s tiny shower sit Johnson & Johnson No Tears Baby Shampoo and pink shaving razors, reminding them that there are a million kids lurking somewhere in this house. Not to mention all the blood swirling down the drain.

But then Ian takes him gently by the waist and positions him under the spray. His hands set to work, first washing the blood from his face, stopping every now and then to kiss the cuts and bruises that he finds underneath. Suddenly, Mickey doesn’t want to be anywhere else than right here.

Ian doesn’t say a word as he washes Mickey’s hair, though they do pause and smirk at the stray shard of glass he finds. He doesn’t need Mickey’s help washing his battered face and body, because Ian has his own way of saying _thank you, I love you, you’ve done enough._

Mickey marvels as Ian rinses shampoo from his red hair. Before he can think twice, he traces his fingers softly over the purple bruise spreading over Ian's ribs. He hasn’t learned how to give quiet kisses, comforting kisses, kisses that take their time and don’t feel like the world is about to end, but it's only a matter of time, because if his hands can learn to be gentle, then Ian can teach him anything. 

And then Ian’s kissing him, their naked bodies and split lips pressed together, skin slick and slippery. Their heads and their mouths and fists and bones hurt and they should be in the hospital but they’re here instead, kissing in the shower, soft and slow, until the water’s so cold they’re gasping and shaking. They've been through so much tonight but it's all washing away. Ian’s the one who breaks the kiss to turn the water off; the one who disentangles and steps back when Mickey just hangs on despite how bad he's shivering. 

Mickey’s so sweet and shattered tonight that he doesn’t even stop Ian from toweling him dry. They put their boxers back on and he lets Ian him down the hall by the hand. He's quiet and cautious and all his, and Ian wonders if it’ll always be like this, or if it’s just tonight. 

“Need to get some new shampoo,” Mickey mutters, “Just because I came out of the fucking closet doesn’t mean I wanna go around with my hair smelling like goddamn cherry blossoms,” and Ian knows this is more than tonight. 

“It’s passion fruit,” he tells him smugly. 

“Well, it’s fucking gay.”

Ian’s laughing when he walks into his bedroom, but stops short when he sees Lip doing up his jeans and a topless girl wiping her mouth. “Don’t you have a dorm room you can get blown in?” Ian asks.

“Holy shit,” Lip says, standing up, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “What the fuck happened?”

“God, what is this, a gang bang?” The girl dives for her shirt. “Can you stop making conversation when I’m half naked?” 

“Believe me,” Lip tells her with little patience for anyone involved. “They don’t care.”

It’s true; they don’t. They both sit down on the bed. Mickey lights a cigarette, tosses the lighter to Lip. Ian leans forward and rests his head in his hands, exhausted. 

“Look, I just have to take Amanda home,” Lip tells his brother, wide eyed and concerned. “Then I’ll be right back, okay?”

“It’s okay,” Ian says. “Seriously. We’re fine.”

“You don’t look fucking fine,” Lip snaps. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Not anymore.”

Lip looks at him for a beat longer. “When I get home, you’re gonna tell me whose ass I have to kick, all right?”

Ian smirks over at Mickey before looking back up at his older brother. “That won’t be necessary,” he smiles. “But we’ll tell you about it at breakfast.”

The way Ian emphasizes the word breakfast makes Lip understand he’s not supposed to come back tonight. He doesn’t trust Mickey Milkovich farther than he can throw him and wouldn’t put it past him to be the one who’d beaten the shit out of Ian, but he does trust his brother, and Mickey’s busted up face makes Lip feel a little better. He tells Ian to call if he needs anything, and then ushers Amanda out of the room, throwing one last worried look over his shoulder before he closes the door behind him. 

They let the emptiness settle over them. 

Mickey shakes his head. “Fuck.”

“Don’t, Mickey.”

Biting his lip, he curses again when he draws blood. He wipes it on his hand and stares down at it, upset. 

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” Ian tells him gently. “Don’t you for a second think you did the wrong thing, all right?"

"I don't."

"Good. Because the way you smiled tonight – fuck. I’ve never seen you look like that before.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Mickey grumbles. 

“No?” Ian smiles impishly, his arm snaking around Mickey’s back, fingers creeping up his side. 

“Do it and I’ll rip your fucking throat out,” Mickey tells him, unable to keep the laugh out of his voice and looking very grumpy about it. 

“Yeah?” Ian teases, his chin on Mickey’s shoulder as he looks up with playful eyes. Mickey puts a hand up to ward him off, just as Ian goes in for the kill. 

It’s not common knowledge, but Mickey Milkovich is ticklish as a goddamn school girl under his right arm. Mandy’s the one who told Ian about it, and Mickey almost killed her for it. But she was right: if you so much as breathe on him funny, he’ll punch you in the fucking face. But not before he giggles a little first, and that’s why Ian does it. Ian tickles; Mickey giggles; they both wince and hold their ribs in their arms, laughing and swearing at each other. 

“You dumb bitch,” Mickey laughs, grinning as Ian flops over and moans in pain. “Serves you fucking right.”

Ian just laughs, proud of himself.

Mickey turns around to look down at Ian, who’s sprawled out behind him on the bed. “I can still kick your ass, you know.”

“Doubtful, but if you did, it would be considered domestic abuse,” Ian says. “What with us being a couple and all.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey snaps, pissed off because everything the stupid kid says to him makes him grin like a goddamn asshole and they both fucking know it. “I can’t believe I came out of the closet for your annoying ass.”

“Me neither,” Ian laughs. “But you sure did.” He smiles up at him. He doesn’t want to give Mickey a chance to regret what he’d done tonight, so he tugs at the towel around his waist and urges him to lay down. “Tired?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, easing his body down on its side next to Ian’s on the tiny twin bed. He throws the towel on the floor and Ian does the same with his. “I don’t want to do anything tomorrow.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing.”

Ian grins, wrapping his arms around Mickey from behind. “I seem to recall you up against a cop car yelling about some specific things that you like to do,” he says, grinding his crotch against Mickey’s ass just in case he’s unclear about what he’s referring to. “But if you’d rather do nothing…”

Mickey laughs, embarrassed. “Okay, I don’t want to do anything that involves leaving this bed, how’s that?” 

“Sounds good to me,” Ian laughs back. After a moment, Mickey’s breathing becomes deeper as he nods off, and Ian realizes he doesn’t want to be alone right now, so he says, “How did it feel?”

Mickey inhales sharply, shaken awake. “How did what feel?”

“Saying all that stuff to your dad.”

It takes him so long to answer that Ian thinks he’s fallen asleep again, but then he clears his throat and says, “Freeing. Like you said.”

“Good.” Ian holds him tighter. “That’s all I wanted for you.”

“Thanks.” Mickey brings his hands up to hold onto the arm draped over his chest, as if he’s holding onto a life jacket and he's afraid of drowning. “Just -- whatever. Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Giving a shit about me.”

“Someone has to.”

“Yeah, not the way I was raised,” he chuckles. 

“I know,” Ian says, his voice sad. “Around here, we didn’t have much, but we always had each other. I was lucky.” Mickey doesn’t say anything, so Ian keeps trying. He wants Mickey to know that everyone else was wrong; that Ian is right to give a shit about him. “Your dad’s going to rot in jail, Mickey.”

“For a bar fight?” Mickey scoffs. “He’ll be out in six months.”

“Even so. He’ll never come near you again. All right?” Ian slips his ankle between Mickey’s and drags his legs tighter against his. “I mean it. If me and Lip have to kill him, we will.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Mickey says with a roll of his eyes. Safe and sound doesn’t feel right to him. “Good luck with that.”

Ian knows he probably doesn’t want to know the answer, but he asks anyway. “When did your dad start beating you up?”

Mickey laughs. Ian hates the sound of it, because it's crushed and strangled. “I don’t even fucking know,” Mickey says. “I know I had my first cast before my first birthday, though.”

“Jesus.”

“Just the way it is in my house,” he says. “I don’t need you feeling sorry for me or some shit.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you, Mickey,” Ian says. “I’m just happy you’re here.”

Mickey lets go of Ian’s arm, startled, because no one’s ever said something like that to him before. He’s always been a pariah, just another piece of shit Milkovich contaminating the streets. When he got shot at the store over the Snickers bar, he heard people had said Kash deserved a fucking medal. The entire Southside's just waiting for him to get killed or thrown in jail like the rest of his family. He doesn’t make people happy. He’s shit. He’s a Milkovich. 

He rolls over so that he’s on his back, but Ian doesn’t take his arm away. It’s still draped over his chest like it belongs there. Mickey’s terrified that Ian’s going to say something stupid like I love you and then he'll have to say it back and he’s not ready to make two huge fucking declarations tonight (no matter how true they both may be), so he blurts, “You ever been anywhere besides here?”

"What?"

"You ever been outside Chicago?"

"I did run away and join the army."

"Besides that."

“Went to Michigan for a couple hours.”

“For what?”

“Monica got high on PCP and thought Frank was trying to kill us, so she put me and Lip and Fiona in the car and just started driving. I think we made it to Ann Arbor before she sobered up and realized what she was doing.” Ian chuckles softly. “We went home and Frank was passed out in his own puke on the kitchen floor. Fiona spent the rest of the night cleaning up after him.”

“How old were you?”

“It was before Debbie was born, so three maybe?”

"You remember all that and you were three?"

"No, I don't remember any of it. I only know about it because Frank and Monica always used to laugh about it when they'd get drunk together. It was just another funny story to them."

“Your parents are fucked up.”

“Yep.”

“We should get a car.”

“Yeah?” Ian smiles. “You and me?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Okay. Where are we going to take this car?”

“Wherever the fuck we want,” Mickey says. “I never been anywhere. Never had a reason.”

“We could go to New York,” Ian says, and this is why Mickey trusts him; why he loves him: because not only is he always game for anything, he never judges Mickey for wanting to try in the first place. Ian is such a far fucking cry from everyone he's ever known. “Go dancing at all the clubs.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll make you.”

“Fucking try it, Gallagher.”

“All I have to do is tickle you and you do this cute little shimmy.”

“I’ll punch you in the goddamn ribs if you don’t shut the fuck up.”

“Ugh, Mickey, you don’t have to flirt with me anymore; we’re boyfriends.”

Mickey bursts into a smile. “Go fuck yourself.”

Ian takes that as an invitation to kiss him, nipping at his lips with a smile. When he pulls away, he doesn’t go very far, pulling Mickey into his arms so that they’re chest to chest. Ian's lips brush Mickey's forehead as he whispers to him. "We'll go wherever you wanna go. Got all the time in the world."

Mickey nods, eyes closing. He believes him. 

"If you could go anywhere, where would it be?"

"Always wanted to go to Astoria," Mickey murmurs. "See the beach from The Goonies."

"...Really?" Ian asks with a surprised laugh. 

"Yeah, I fucking love that movie."

"I've never seen it."

"You're shitting me," Mickey says, opening his eyes to give Ian a dirty look. Then he closes them again. "That's gonna fucking change."

"Tomorrow," Ian says. "We'll watch The Goonies and buy a map and plan out all the places we're gonna go together."

"Maybe we can paint our nails too. Just because I don't think we're gay enough."

Ian smiles. He kisses the bridge of Mickey's nose. “Night, Mickey.”

Mickey doesn't say anything for a long time as he listens to the thump of Ian's heart and the sirens outside. Before he drifts off, he murmurs, “Night, Ian.”

They fall asleep, face-to-face, arms around each other, Mickey's knee between Ian's thighs and Ian's smile in Mickey's hair, bodies broken but gentle. It's the first time they've spent the night alone in a room together without fucking. Maybe it's because they're too sore; maybe it's because Mickey's been through too much for one night. Or maybe it's because they have all the time in the world. 

 

 

 

 


End file.
